Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(106)

The traitor stood, squaring his shoulders. He smoothed his eyebrow, composed, conceited, and cold. “My people believe that Fate is fixed. Our race is destined to dwindle away one day. And every man, woman, and child have their time. It’s true for cities, too. And Veii’s time is due.”

A chill ran down the Aemilian’s spine. He wondered if the general was wise to believe in this man. There was an evil about him.

Camillus stood between priest and tribune, slinging his arms around their shoulders. “It’s time to celebrate, Marcus, not question Artile’s soul. He’s provided us with answers to both placate the gods and defeat our mortal enemy. And in summer, both of you will stand beside me at my triumph. In summer, Veii will fall.”





FORTY-EIGHT



Caecilia, Veii, Spring, 396 BC

The hearth glowed in the darkness. Caecilia stared into the fire. It was the red heart of Mastarna’s house. She wished the sacrifice she planned tonight to be performed in the dwelling she called home, rather than at the fireplace in the lofty palace. The flames jerked and flared, the shadows on the walls mimicking their pattern as she waited in the atrium for Vel to arrive.

Veii was healing. The painful memory of the plague and famine receding. There was fuel to keep homes warm from the nip of spring evenings. Bellies were full. Trade was returning to normal. The markets were noisy with haggling, the streets jammed with traffic.

There was once again a division between the quick and the dead, too. In the weeks after Vel’s return, there’d been many funeral games to preside over. The despair suffered for over a year stoked the need to placate Aita. The Phersu was called upon often to reanimate the dead and appease the spirits.

Attending so many funerals made Caecilia even more grateful her children had been spared. She worried, though, that Larce was anxious when she was not near, careful to remain in her circumference. Always resilient, Arnth seemed unaffected by his encounter with death. He delighted in the return of Vel, clipping his heels whenever his father visited the family quarters. Tas was even more withdrawn. Now when Caecilia gazed into his tawny eyes, she recognized his thoughts: “I am mortal. When will I die?”

Thia did not recognize her father at first. She’d screamed when an armor-clad man loomed over her cradle, eager to kiss her. Composed when facing an enemy, the warrior was flustered by a baby. But the cadence of his voice quieted her. Since then, Vel’s little princess would always burble and chirp when her Apa drew near.

There was now a buzz of excitement in the city. Vel had decreed the Spring Festival to be held. Once again, Veientanes could descend into the ravines and hills to revel in the new growth of the forest. The grapevines entwined on staked rows were blooming and would fruit in autumn. In winter, farmers would lay down the vintage. And in spring, Veientane wine would be consumed instead of liquor from distant cities. The cycle of the vine would continue. Once again the people would observe the death and resurrection of Fufluns throughout the seasons.

Loosening the strings of her purse, Caecilia drew out a tiny wooden figurine that her father had given her when she was born. Her guardian spirit. Her little juno. The talisman was a symbol of her Roman essence. When she’d first come to Veii, she’d prayed the spirit would protect her. Then she’d learned that Rasennan angels hovered unseen among humans, winged sentinels who served the gods and protected mortals. Such power made her little juno seem paltry. Even so, she always kept the idol beside her bed, reluctant to relinquish the safeguard. For a moment, she wondered what her father would think if he were alive. His one resolve was that Rome should conquer Veii. If he’d lived, she would never have been married to Vel. Should she be thankful, then, that he’d died so that she found love?

She clenched the juno in her fingers. There’d once been another amulet she’d used to protect her. Marcus’s iron wristlet with the Aemilian horsehead crest. After the Battle of Blood and Hail she’d wrenched it off and buried it like the proof of an evil omen, her love for Marcus buried, too.

She took a deep breath. It was time to exorcise the Roman within her. The chains of belief that once bound her were now rusted. Tonight she would snap those brittle fetters forever. And tomorrow, she would submit to Fufluns.

She cast the little juno into the hottest part of the fire. For a moment she panicked, thinking she should fish it out with the rake, but then, as the blue-edged flames caught its smooth, polished surface, she found herself hypnotized. The chance to rescue it passed. If she retrieved it, the remnant would be misshapen.

She heard the murmur of voices at the outer door. Vel and Arruns. Her husband emerged into the dimness of the room, the firelight revealing his curiosity. “Why have you called me here? And what are you doing in the dark?”

She beckoned to him. “Come and see. I’m ridding myself of Rome.” She pointed at the hearth.

He frowned as he peered into the fire. “What am I looking at?”

“My little juno. She’s almost in ashes.”

He could not hide his shock. “Why would you do that? She’s the emblem of your spirit.”

“So that I can be wholly Veientane. So that nothing will hold me in check at the Spring Festival.”

He searched her face. “I know I asked this of you before I left. It was unfair. I don’t expect you to surrender your beliefs.”

“I do so gladly.”